


Omissions From Your Script

by elegantanagram (Lir)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Collars, Communication, Dom/sub Play, Dominance, Established Relationship, Fingerfucking, M/M, POV Third Person, Pet Play, Smuturday, Trust, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-31
Updated: 2013-03-31
Packaged: 2017-12-07 01:40:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/742689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lir/pseuds/elegantanagram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just because Dave wanted the leash and the collar and the small host of tacit expectations doesn't mean John doesn't want to play this game, too. Dave billed the show. John is just the one with the authority, the one dictating all the improvisations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Omissions From Your Script

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece to [this other fic I wrote](http://archiveofourown.org/works/732957) although both will easily stand alone, and you don't need to read one in order to enjoy the other.
> 
> If you like Dave/Dirk as well as Dave/John, though, they're meant as a juxtaposition of Dirk's style as an owner with John's style, as two different ways of fulfilling the same person's fetish. And yeah, it's actually meant as a John/Dave/Dirk poly relationship but it's perfectly possible to ignore that feature entirely.
> 
> Once again, written for [smuturday](http://smuturday.tumblr.com/faq) as begun by [Sinny](http://ironicallykawaiidesu.tumblr.com/) on tumblr.

-

"Okay, hold still, just a second..." 

John fastens the collar, pulling the leather snug around Dave's throat and wiggling the band back and forth, until it sits just the way he wants. There! He pulls his tongue back from between his teeth, realizing only belatedly the stupid concentrating face he was making. So what? This is important.

John sits back on the edge of the bed, taking just a moment to feel pleased. Dave lowers himself, moving from raised on his knees to resting on his heels on the carpet. That's right, he's forgetting one thing. John reaches out, plucks Dave's shades off the bridge of his nose, and tosses them onto the bedside table. Now it's perfect. 

Any other time, Dave would loudly protest that transgression.

Right now, Dave won't stop John from taking away his shield, or from reaching out and ruffling up his hair. Dave is so cute! He's always trying his hardest to be cool and composed, mister charisma behind his impenetrable aviators and his distant look. Sometimes John buys into the hype. Dave is an enormous dork, but John'll take two of what he's selling because it looks so goddamn good. 

Times like now there's no hype at all, and John likes it because he gets to do just what he wants like that's exactly how it's meant to be. 

"I missed you, boy," he says, in his biggest friendly voice. 

He slides off the bedside, plopping down on his knees and throwing his arms around Dave's neck, pulling him in tight. He messes up Dave's hair again, ruffling it with careless abandon. "You want to play, don't you?" 

John sits back, his hands lingering on Dave's shoulders. Dave's face is open without his shades, but he still only looks calmly curious. Way to get excited about playtime, Dave! John always wanted a puppy but now that he's gotten one, his pet can be _so dumb._

John tried to teach him some tricks, back at the beginning, but he figured out pretty quick that wasn't what Dave wanted. 

This is still Dave's show. John might be the one holding the leash, but Dave is the one who asked for the collar. John tries to be a good owner, reasoning that it means keeping his pet happy, and healthy, and let's not forget well-disciplined. And in that spirit sometimes it comes down to what John wants, because John is the authority here. 

Sometimes, John just wants to horse around. What else are pets good for!

"You missed me too, didn't you, boy?" he asks. 

Dave perks up a little, so that John can just imagine him wagging the tail he doesn't have, sitting there in his little track shorts. He's such a dumb dog. At least John never doubts that Dave loves him. 

John shoves Dave over, without pause nor pity. He rolls Dave to the floor with one hand on his shoulder, the other sliding over Dave's stomach with so much familiarity. Dave gives him a yelp for his troubles, although John hardly believes Dave was startled. He doesn't totally buy Dave's squirming, either, little testing motions while John pets his belly with light fingers. 

"You totally missed me," he insists. "Look at you, you just want the attention."

John always wanted a dog. A big dog, the kind he could roll around with. 

"You don't care what I do to you," John says, and laughs at him, letting Dave roll up towards him before rolling him back down. "You just want me to love you and tell you you're a good boy, don't you?"

Dave nods his head, making a little noise in his throat and pushing against John's hands. It's a pleasant give and take, the puppyish resistance of Dave trying to get off his back countered by John's "nuh-uh"s and "come on, boy"s and his firm touch in defying Dave's token struggles. He can't hardly mean it, not when he's getting attention and a fond touch and the drag of John's hands over his belly and up his chest. 

John's boyfriend has combat training, quick reflexes, and an intimate knowledge of swords. But John's puppy only has a craving for touch and praise. He's easily turned to putty, resistance draining until he's gentled under John's hands, just the smallest wiggles trying to coax John into touching him precisely where he likes. When John tickles him instead, he whines at his betrayal. 

They don't need the shallow dominance play, but John likes it. 

John musses up Dave's hair one more time, pets him everywhere. His hands map the familiar planes of Dave's chest, skate over the soft surface of Dave's stomach and trail along his arms. He pins Dave with one hand and seeks out Dave's tender places with the other, playful even while he's unrelenting. It's all to the tune of "You like that boy, don't you," the repeated teasing inquiry offered in between John's chuckles and his touches. 

Dave's knees are pulled loosely up while John leans over him, Dave's heels comfortably braced against the carpet. It's pretty obvious when Dave's hips start to rock up, a motion totally different from the one that means "come pet my belly john do it." John puts one hand over the tent in Dave's shorts and gives an acknowledging little rub. Then he lets go of Dave and sits back on his heels. 

"Come on, boy," he chides. He stands up. "Good puppies can be patient!"

Dave rolls onto his side and looks up at John. His face is falling into a "pity me" look, the sort he'd try at no other time. Dave's boners are serious business!

"You're a good puppy, aren't you Davey?" John asks. 

Dave nods at him. 

"We'll see about that," John tells him. 

John sits down on the edge of the bed again. His hands go to the front of his pants, undoing his belt buckle. He's still looking at Dave, not paying much attention to what his fingers are doing. "Sit up, boy."

The tone isn't as playful as before. John knows a thing or two about getting his way; if he's going to give an order, it'll come out sounding as such. Dave rolls off his back, arranging his knees neatly under himself in a well-established seated position. They're a bit wider spread than normal. He rests his hands on his knees, fingers loosely curled in. 

"Good," John permits, so the fondness creeps into the word. 

John's hands are at his fly, unfastening the button, drawing down the zip. He can tell that Dave isn't watching his face; Dave is watching the motion of his fingers. Dave's face is openly expectant, red-pink tip of tongue flicking out against his bottom lip. 

"Heel, boy," John says. 

John lifts one hand to make the appropriate gesture, the small signal he took the time to teach. His puppy is such a dumb dog, but the important things, those Dave picks up on quick. Dave shuffles forward immediately, scooting on his knees with his hands against the carpet to balance, closing the minimal distance until he's sitting in between John's parted knees. 

The unfettered obedience floors John, when he forgets how this works and thinks about it. 

John reaches out, cradling his palm against Dave's head and flicking Dave's bangs out of the way with his thumb. Dave looks up at him, hopeful, waiting, and John swallows thickly against the resistance in his throat. 

"Good boy," he says, softer. 

His hand is reaching into the gap in his pants, scooping his cock out with fingers that narrowly fail to fumble. They curl idly around the base of his mostly-flaccid dick, and John's other hand is still lightly braced against the back of Dave's skull. 

"Come on, boy," he says. "Suck me." 

Dave's hands come up as he leans in, bracing against John's knees. He flicks his tongue out first, swiping against the tip in lightest, tasting contact. It's followed by the full contact of his mouth, slipping over the head of John's cock and suckling coaxingly. When John sighs, Dave shivers a little against him, and John realizes just how expectant he keyed himself up to be. 

Dave's mouth is hot and moist, the motions of his tongue coming subtle and secret against John's skin. He's slow about it, but insistent, lavishing attention with a single-mindedness that leaves John gasping quietly while he stares down at Dave. John's hands card through Dave's hair, quick, restless. He might not have been hard when Dave started but that's a quick fix, John's will utterly at the mercy of Dave's talented mouth. 

At first, Dave's attentions are shallow, his mouth firmly latched just past the head. It's all busy suction and the press of Dave's tongue against John's tenderest spot. But as John rises to the occasion Dave bobs his head down, the tight circle of his lips descending to take in more and more of John's length with each downward pass. 

John doesn't praise him. 

It's not that Dave isn't doing a good job. It's that it was a single order, and that task is still ongoing. What Dave gets for encouragement is John's hand weaving through the strands of his hair, John's increasingly heavy breathing and more frequent pleasured groans. His butt stays pressed to the bed, but once he's hard and his dick has been liberally slicked with Dave's spit, the hand cradling Dave's head starts to weigh down with less benign pressure. 

Dave whines around John's cock, the hands that were creeping up the inside of John's thighs tightening down and holding on. John pushes Dave's head down, taking control of Dave's pace and altering it to his liking. It's not that Dave wasn't doing well before. It's that sometimes, John likes to force Dave's head onto him, to the tune of the sharp little gusts of air out of Dave's nostrils and John's own quickened inward breathing. Pets need careful training; it's only proper of him to show Dave exactly what to do. 

Once John has set the pace at a faster clip, he lets Dave go. He enjoys leading! He knows what he likes and it feels so _good_ to just make Dave do it. But there's something just as nice about not backseat-driving, about leaving Dave to puzzle out exactly how hard to suck, how to squirm his tongue along the underside, how to drag his lips all the way up only to duck down and do it all again. John made Dave speed up, and now that he's leaving Dave to impart a far more determined blowjob than before, it's turning into a bit much.

This isn't a pleasant tease or an effort to get him hard, this is Dave throwing himself into making John come.

"Down, boy," John says.

Dave whines against his mouthful, but he doesn't resist. As soon as John gives the order he's pulling back, moving to again sit on his haunches in practiced obedience. He's pouting, but John can overlook that. 

Mostly.

"Don't make that face," he says. "You're good. You did really good."

It really isn't that Dave wasn't doing a good job, it's just that John doesn't want to finish that way. He pats the bed beside him, thumping his palm against the mattress. 

"Up, boy," he says. 

It's pretty cute, how Dave forces himself not to scramble. He waits a second, backs up slightly from John, and then climbs up onto the bed with a docility that nearly conceals how he never fully stands during the process. He shifts around, getting comfortable sitting back on his heels. 

John is standing up again, dropping his pants, pushing down his boxers, and kicking both offending pieces of clothing to the side. Dave scoots a bit closer to him on the bed, makes a little whine in his throat. John drops his eyes to Dave's crotch, then deliberately shakes his head.

"Come on, boy," he says, with the slightest hint of disappointment. "That's not up." 

Dave's shoulders rise, his head ducking down slightly. Yeah, he should feel bad for forgetting what really basic orders mean just because he has a hard-on! John taught him these things for a reason. If Dave can't even do the things John asks of him, how can he still expect John to take care of him? 

John stays standing, expectant. Dave doesn't linger in his moment of pity for long enough to earn a real reprimand; after a moment, Dave is sitting up, going to hands and knees on the bed. It points him away from John, and Dave almost immediately cranes his neck around to peer back at John. Constantly praise-seeking. It's painfully cute, just the best kind of subtly pathetic. John leans forward to pet down Dave's back with one hand. 

"Good boy," he says. "I was sure you knew what to do. Look how smart you are. I'm so proud of you."

Dave shivers under John's hands, and John tucks his fingers into the waistband of Dave's shorts. When he pulls shorts and underwear down in one go, Dave helpfully shifts his knees, assisting John in getting them all the way off of him. 

"Look at you," John says.

It's not really an order, and it's not really praise, either. John's the one doing the looking, dragging his eyes down the slope of Dave's back to the narrow span of his waist, to the tempting curves of his asscheeks. Dave is all smooth skin and precise angles, all the better without a stitch on him. Just the thick band of leather, visible against the back of Dave's neck.

"Stay," John tells him.

It isn't nearly as firm as it should be, but John doesn't expect Dave to disobey. 

The bedside drawer rattles when John pulls it out, creaking all the more when he rummages around inside. He's back on the bed, with Dave, a minute later, stroking at Dave's hips with both hands so that the bottle he's holding presses against Dave's side. Dave cranes his head back at him, a perking-up motion – a question. 

"Playtime," John tells him, and it's maybe a little bit smug. 

Dave's eyes do that funny little thing John almost never gets to see, where they widen, then slowly smooth back to watchfulness. It always makes John think "I'm onto you," like Dave's aware of every little thing he's going to do, and he swats Dave on the butt for his trouble. The little groan low in Dave's throat is entirely worth it. 

Dave plants his elbows on the bed and folds in his arms, letting his torso droop down into the position he finds most comfortable. He wiggles his ass at John like he's begging any attention, bad or good, but this time John just grabs him around the hips and holds him still. Even that earns John another small sound. 

John pops open the cap of the bottle of lube, drizzling a generous portion out onto his fingers. He kneels behind Dave, ignoring the fact that his dick is hard and he's making himself wait, ignoring the fact that Dave's had a boner even longer and should be suffering for it. He rests his palm just at the top of the cleft of Dave's ass, his fingers sliding down and then pushing against Dave. It's gentle pressure, just enough to get Dave to make a noise, not enough to press into him.

What John wants is the sound. 

His fingers trace against Dave, a lazy loop of a motion, playing against all those antsy, sensitive nerve endings. Dave is whining at him way too fast. Maybe John wanted to fool around a little! Good pets are supposed to be quiet, and to wait when their owners tell them to wait. (The last thing John wants is for him to be quiet.) The forced, needy sound goes right to John's dick, and he pushes his first finger into Dave. 

John is aiming for a torturous in and out, a slow motion that eases Dave wider a hair at a time. It makes him grit his own teeth with the want to go faster, to speed this over so he can get to the part that makes _John_ feel good. It's not like he even has to go slow, not when they've done this enough times before that Dave really just needs a little prep and then he's gunning to get on with it. 

John wants to do it because this is the only time he can take as much time as he wants just working his fingers into Dave, turning him into a whining mess from the inside out. Every other day, John's boyfriend would have an unending torrent of complicated words to spew about what a shitty tease John is, about what stupid thing he thinks he's doing and what measures he could take to improve his game. Dave is the dictionary definition of verbal diarrhea, and having his filter short-circuited by his dick only makes it worse. 

It's kind of hot. Not that Dave needs to know that!

But when all Dave can offer in return are needy whines, when he resorts to rocking his hips back against John's hand until John adds a second finger out of nothing so much as pity, there's that overwhelming sense of being in _control._ It makes his belly tense with heat, makes his spine tingle and makes those rare possessive feelings buried in the recesses of his brain spark alight with the need to own what's his. John places his free palm against one of Dave's asscheeks, spreading him wider and working his fingers into Dave deeper. 

"Come on, Davey," John coaxes. "You know you like the attention."

Dave makes this little want-pained noise, and John knows he's right. He curls his fingers, strokes and presses, maps delicately along Dave's insides with the same care he maps the outsides. Dave wriggles, the slightest little motion to and fro, and the loudest noise in the room is the panting of Dave's breath against the stiller air. 

"You want to get off?" John asks. 

It's hardly a question. 

Dave pushes back against him, and it's not quite an answer. John pulls his fingers back slightly, worms the third in with his next forward press. It's then that he switches to a quicker, rougher motion, his short finger-thrusts all the better emulating what he wants to be doing. Yeah, this dumb teasing thing is quickly losing its appeal!

"Of course you do," John says. "You're such a needy pet, aren't you. I bet I could get you off with just my fingers in your ass."

John hasn't a clue whether the noise he gets is Dave's approval at the suggestion, or wordless begging not to be subjected to that sort of sexual torture. 

Like John has the patience for that. 

"Don't worry," he says. "We're not going to do that." 

John's fingers are still pressing into Dave, although it's hardly for the purpose of prep at that point. Dave's whine could have been from John's next drive into him, as much as it could have been from the verbal promise. He twists his wrist a little, makes Dave squirm just a little bit more, stares down at the way Dave's asshole clenches around his fingers. 

God, he wants to fuck his pet through the mattress. 

John's hand pulls back, fingers swiping unthinkingly against the bedspread even as he's grabbing the bottle to drizzle a bit more lube into his hand. When he touches himself it's lightly, quick strokes to slick himself up that don't linger. He aches and it's not the grasp of his hand that he wants. 

He nudges forward, fits himself close behind Dave so that one roll of his hips plus his steadying hand has his dick driving smoothly into his boyfriend. It's only all the time he's spent training Dave as a pet that gives him the resolve necessary to do it slow and even, and not with a single eager shove. Dave groans for the whole duration of the stroke all the same. 

John just gives a little gasp at the end, fuck, Dave feels perfect. 

When John moves, it's to start off with measured thrusts. Much as he'd like to pound Dave into the bed, he's the one who benefits from building up a rhythm. It's comforting, setting his even pace, picking up speed a measure at a time. It's heat and friction just like his dick was begging for, given as he molds himself to Dave's back and groans and pets down Dave's sides. 

John grasps Dave's hips, pulling Dave's whole body with him when he leans back. He pushes Dave forward again, so he can yank Dave back onto his dick. It earns him the best startled sound. John sticks to that for a minute, holding still and guiding Dave back and forth, until he doesn't even have to do a thing, until Dave is rutting back against him at exactly the pace John set him to. 

He sets his teeth, hissing between them at the feeling. 

That really only lasts so long. It's good, it's really good having Dave shove against him with a kind of open eagerness, but John can't handle sitting still and letting Dave do that. He pushes Dave back forward, lets his hips follow the motion with a sturdy snap. Dave yelps, and then whines, low and wanting and needy until he shoves his face into the fold of his arms against the mattress. 

Dave is trembling under John's touch, the slightest vibration off his skin. John pets down his back, dragging his hands from along Dave's ribcage down to his waist, holding tight when he reaches the end of his path before letting his hips jerk forward with measured force. John's thrusts are quick and hard, a bruising pace that's putting all sorts of strain on his muscles but he has to do it, it's necessary, he can't settle for anything less. 

He slides one hand over Dave's hip, curling under Dave to stroke along his belly. The muscles there are tensing and releasing, weird little patterns from which John can divine nothing specific. He curls his fingers around Dave's cock instead, giving firm, even strokes that he brings into time with the thrusts of his hips. 

Dave is whining into his arm, an unbroken string of meaningless noises that trickle from between his lips. They're like bell chimes, Pavlovian, and this time John is the dog with his heart rate conditioned to speed at the sound. He jerks Dave faster, until the motion is unrelenting more than it's coaxing. 

With all the sounds Dave is making, with the way his body feels and the way he moves against John, he has to be close. It's just a few more tugs, with a manner that indicates John will accept nothing less than Dave's climax laid out for his approval, before Dave is spilling himself all over John's hand and down onto the bedspread. 

It's this little thrill of victory, articulated by stroking his sticky hand along Dave's stomach and around to once again grip Dave's hip. It's followed by the sound of Dave's still-harsh breathing, loud as he tries to come down in spite of John still rocking his hips against Dave. 

"Good boy," John says, like a benediction, like a prayer offered so many times as to have lost meaning.

Dave whines at him, quiet and low, urging him to finish with that wordless plea. 

John whispers it again, and again, diluting the sentiment with each repetition but enjoying the way Dave shudders underneath him at the sound of his voice. His strokes are less forceful now, some combination of pity on Dave's ravaged body and draining strength after all the effort already put forth. But they're still quick, still mostly-even, like that authority he learned how to wear in just the way that works for them. 

He continues another minute, his praise dwindling into nothing more than raspy panting. The last few strokes are uneven, needy, and then he's done. Tensing and coming and groaning noisy as before, melting over Dave's back like warm paraffin when holding himself up no longer seems a worthwhile expenditure of his strength. 

John isn't a complete dick, though, and after a minute he slips out of Dave, rolls onto his back on the mattress beside him. Dave takes the opportunity to let his knees slide down, until he's stretched on his stomach with his arms spread out in front of him, his head pillowed in between them. 

He wiggles closer to John, until he can nestle himself up against John's side. 

"You're the best, Davey," John murmurs to him. 

He only says that to his pet. That's not his boyfriend's name. With his boyfriend it's almost always Dave, sometimes Strider, even more frequently any variety of irreverent nicknames like "dick" or "asshole" or "sweet petunia." But Davey is John's good boy, is the cutest stupid puppy he could have hoped for, is warm and comforting when John curls his arm around him. 

"Okay," John says, gearing himself up once he's caught his breath a little. "Hey boy. Do you want me to take your collar off now?" 

Dave rolls his head to look at John, thinks about it. John just takes the opportunity to stare without guilt into Dave's face, eyes unguarded and expression full of open consideration. Dave shrugs his shoulder, finally, shakes his head "no." 

"Oh," John says. 

It's not exactly an intelligent response, but that also isn't the answer he was expecting. 

"Okay boy, but I'm going to lie here and recover for at least ten minutes," John tells him. 

Dave burrows a bit further into his side. It hardly reads as anything so much as content agreement. 

Later, when John can stomach moving and when the fact that Dave is _sticky_ becomes too gross for him to really enjoy lying around in the middle of the afternoon, John leads Dave down the hall to the bathroom. He runs a bath, washes Dave up, scrubs him all over in addition to shampooing his hair. It's soothing, and it doesn't take a rocket scientist to deduce that this is something else Dave wanted out of the evening all along.

John towels him off on the floor, with Dave sitting on the fuzzy bathroom mat. When he's about to call it done, Dave scoots up onto the toilet, pulls at his collar with one finger. 

"Yeah, I'm on it," John says. 

He reaches up, unfastens Dave's collar with a bit less fanfare than went into putting it on. He sets it out on the bathroom counter, to be returned to its proper place later. Then he leans in and kisses Dave full on the mouth. 

Dave curls his arms around John's neck, pulling him in tight. There's a tongue in his mouth almost before he registers how firm the press of Dave's lips is, before he registers them parting against John's own. Dave's hands go up in John's hair, winding close and holding on. His tongue shoves against John's, coaxing until John laughs against his mouth and manages to kiss Dave the way he wants. 

"Wow, okay," John says, when Dave pulls back. 

"Shut up Egbert, every second of that smooch was wholly deserved, as calculated off every minute you felt like going butt-spelunking. Did you lose your watch? I'd tell you if it was still up there, no need to fret."

"Ugh, gross," John says, but he's laughing. 

Dave as a person still doesn't care that he's naked and dripping, wearing nothing more than the towel draped around his shoulders. He sits back against the toilet like it's the comfiest chair in the world, like it's some kind of throne for obnoxious coolkids alone. His shades are still in the other room; he can't hide his eyes, and he doesn't even try to hide the little up-quirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. 

"Your voice when you talk to me," Dave says, just a bit too casual, "is really hot."

"Thanks, Dave!" John chirps. "I'll be sure to keep talking, do you want me to tell you how gross you are again?"

Dave punches him on the arm, but playfully, adding, "You know what I mean."

"I don't know Dave," John says. "Maybe I don't know what you mean. Maybe you need to explain it to me."

Dave rolls his eyes. He does it anyway. "I mean when you're giving orders, douchebrain. It was a compliment."

John chuckles a little, almost playing it off because haha, Dave doesn't really give flat compliments much! They're almost nicer when he's being snarky or long-winded about it. It's more personal, more Dave-flavored. It makes John feel bashful, but...

"Thanks, Dave." 

John leans in, kisses Dave one more time, more briefly than the first time. This thank you is genuine and it earns him a little sweetness, the soft press of Dave's lips without any teeth or insistence. He pulls away.

"Okay, go put some clothes on," John says. "I just spent like thirty minutes tenderly scrubbing your butt, but aside from getting splashed I'm still sweaty and gross. I want to take a shower."

"Yeah, yeah," Dave says. "You sure you don't want me to sit here and watch?" 

"Whatever gets your rocks off, dude, but I'm getting in the shower."

John whips off the shirt he's still wearing, damp as it already is from giving Dave a doggy bath. Dave is laughing quietly, and for a second he thinks Dave really is going to sit right there like an asshole until he's done. It's not like John really cares, so he turns on the hot water and ignores Dave. 

"Let's play some brawl when you're squeaky clean," Dave says.

It isn't really a question. Some things are simply understood. 

-

-


End file.
